


Julian

by Futuresolstice



Category: No Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:49:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3108413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Futuresolstice/pseuds/Futuresolstice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short story on the theme of 'Dystopia', which I entered into the Nawe Myths of the near future - Dystopia competition in October; I did not win, but here it is anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Julian

The corridor seemed shorter than usual, perhaps because it took a lot less effort to simply walk, or rather be marched along the white washed walls to the office, Welfare Assistant at each side. To be dragged backwards, laughing hysterically and flailing all the way, by more Welfare Assistants than you would expect were needed to escort someone of Julian’s stature, was truly effortful. The second option was Julian’s usual method of travel, however impractical it was, and regardless of how much pain it could cause. The doors to the Teacher’s office, Julian noted, had slightly more menacing look when faced head on but they were swung out of the way soon enough, not leaving Julian enough time to consider them further.

 

 

A sharp criticism welcomed him into the room, “You’re late.”

 

Julian chuckled, “You really need to change your catchphrase.”

 

“I wasn’t talking to you. Guards, put him over there.”

 

The Welfare assistants manhandled him into the cold, steel chair that was placed across from the cold, steel table from where the cold, steel-like Teacher sat waiting, barking his commands.

 

“Don’t you know that they’re not guards?” Julian smiled to the two of them as they left the room; their lack of reply was sour faced as ever. “They’re welfare assistants – Teacher, I’m disappointed in you - you’re their employer!”

 

“Still not sane enough to make your own way here, twenty three?”

 

“I prefer to have my welfare assisted.” Julian grinned, exposing all nine of the teeth he had left. At least four of the missing were courtesy to his guards ‘assistance’ during previous trips to the Teacher’s office.

 

“I almost thought you’d escaped for a minute there, twenty three, I didn’t hear your usual chorus, and _then_ you were late.” The Teacher’s monotone seemed endless.

 

“I’m sure it was traumatic for you to have to imagine a world here without me.”

 

“You have no idea.” The Teacher silently made his way to the open window, then slammed it shut. “Do you miss the rain, twenty three?”

 

With the background of high winds and rain slashing against the window shut out, the silence lingered between them. Had Julian not been accustomed to it, the Teacher’ssmile that followed may have been too much to bear.

 

“Yet rain is one memory in a million, twenty three, and I imagine you miss a number of things.” There was the smile again. “Memories…fond ones, traumatic ones, old ones, and new ones…fake ones…”

 

“Don’t.”

 

“Don’t?”

 

“Don’t.”

 

“Don’t what, twen-”

 

“Just don’t. I know why I’m here.”

 

The smile was gone. “So you’ve prepared.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well… _twenty three_ …you are aware that our little chats are being recorded, so as always, I suggest you get on with it.”

 

“I’ll take as long as I need. But I would prefer to use the lab recording equipment.”

 

“As you wish.” The Teacher removed his thickly rimmed glasses. He had refused to correct Julian’s use of the word ‘lab’ – maybe even the Teacher had given up referring to it as a hospital, which it clearly was not. “Although, I’ll warn you now that your time left here is not as lengthy as you might hope.”

 

“I hope it lasts forever, and that the world ends within the hour.”

 

“I suggest you start talking.”

 

“My memories…you’ve assessed them already?”

 

“Correct.”

 

“So what do you hope to gain from another spoken recital?”

 

The Teacher sighed, “It is not I who hopes to learn. This is for those you will not remember once you’ve made the journey to Purity.”

 

“My family?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Why would they care? They’re the ones that put me here.”

 

“And it was for your own good, was it not?”

 

Julian cursed.

 

The sickly smile returned, “So, 23, take as long as you need. But it’s late

November, and you’ll be home by Christmas.”

 

“I don’t want to go home.”

“I didn’t say you had a choice. You’re all going home.”

 

* * *

 

 

“The second that they realise, that’s when we leave.” Adam declared, sitting up a little straighter in order to make his point, although this proved harder than he’d anticipated the owner of the lap on which he sat squirmed and poked him in the ribs. “Ouch, don’t do that!”

“The second that they realise,” Julian said, pulling away slightly, “That’s when the System catches up with us, and before you can say ‘He made me do it’, you’re halfway to some facility or other, and then who knows after that, may-…“

It only took the mention of their future and the System, to turn the air between them stale.

“Don’t ruin it. I’m planning our action packed escape.”

“Don’t pretend.”

“Lighten the fuck up, Jule!” Adam continued to try and sit up, only to be hugged tighter, which ultimately prevented him from achieving his goal.

The stale air lingered still.

“Do you think they have protein mash, like in those old films we watched?” A mention of the past, their better days, and the days before the System; it calmed the nerves.

“Who?”

“The facility people, do you think that’s what you get to eat?”

“Maybe. If you get to eat at all.”

Adam’s snort of laughter that followed made Julian chuckle.

“Starvation isn’t funny, y’know!”

“It’s not that – I’m just imagining you giving some tough guards in white suits a bunch of hassle for messing your precious hair up.”

“I don’t think they let you keep your hair, like they shave it off straight away – otherwise you’d take ages washing it and stuff.”

“Just saying, you’d give them hassle, no matter what…”

“I’d hassle them until they let us share a padded cell.”

“James’s uncle told him that they don’t have padded cells, it’s more like a metal room with a toilet, and a bad bed.”

“A bad bed?”

“I dunno, it’s what James said, but yeah, James is a tosser, and his uncle can barely feed himself…”

“His uncle is missing the frontal Cortex of his brain…I’m not surprised he can’t lift a spoon without James’s mum having to give him exact instructions.”

“Alright, Einstein, calm it.”

“Do you even know who Einstein was?”

“Some science guy?”

“Got it in one.”

“Jule, you’re one sarcastic, know-it-all, brat.”

“And that’s why you love me?”

“Exactly.”

“Well you’re special.”

“That’s all?”

“Yeah, special.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The monitors clicked, people were speaking in hushed tones, and some machine or other was beeping – a typical hospital to the uneducated eye. Yet, beneath the violation of the odd human right, this hospital was as typical as it got for a Facility like this one; every facility had a well-functioning hospital – from a tumble in the canteen or test subjects exposed to a dangerous level of alpha-particles, the patients would be cured. They would be cured - sometimes against their will. The rules were simple,

1)      You _will_ get better.

2)      Screaming and other such loud noises are prohibited at all times.

3)      No visitors.

4)      Do not, under any circumstances, enter Ward 7.

Although a little ominous, these rules had the place running to full capacity at all times of year - apart from December 15th to 31st of course, when Ward 7 would be busy, and the entirety of the rest of the complex would be deserted.

Julian was used to the pain induced when numerous needles were inserted into the vein of his lower arm – there was a time when an uncountable number of pin-prick scars dotted his wrists, but a quick skin altering operation later, and he was clean, in at least one sense. One of the stone faced doctors slipped a syringe needle into his vein, and began to inject a familiar blue liquid into Julian’s blood stream.

“That’s a truth serum.” He’d been one of the test subjects for the prototype serums – he was glad to note that it was not quite the luminous blue that it used to be, although it was only a few stages on from the liquid that had left him hospitalised for three weeks, and had left him with permanent digestion problems.

“Well observed 23,” came the Teacher’s reply. His gaunt frame always lurking within Julian’s obscured tunnel of vision.

“Do you really expect me to lie at a time like this?”

“Your lies are what brought you here, and you know that.”

“Not true.”

A different, yet peculiarly similar looking doctor tightened Julian’s restraints a little, then proceeded to send a high voltage of electrical current straight through his spinal cord. Without the regulatory ‘welfare’ band – a heavy, electronic collar which could be remotely accessed in times of need, particularly if one of the Impure were to become dangerous or insane – this would not have been possible.

“Praise be to science.” Julian muttered, while he unclenched his jaw and tried not to scream as another set of volts were sent the same way.

This process repeated until the doctors were satisfied that Julian was looking particularly vacant and dazed.

“That’ll do.” The Teacher commanded, followed by the exit of the numerous doctors from the small operating room.

“Where’s the recording equipment?” Julian dared to ask, as he again unclenched his jaw and tried to ignore the bleeding parts of his sharply painful tongue, which had not survived the ordeal unscathed from being partially bitten.

“This headset is all you will need.”

The whirr of a few expensive motorised arms brought the headset down around his eyes and forehead. It brushed the few prickles that remained of his hair, then stopped as a red light appeared.

“It’s a little dark in here.” He commented, to receive no reply. “Shall I start talking yet?”

“In your own time, 23, for your final recording begins now.”

The headset clicked, and the red light flashed, as Julian chose the words to explain how things were.

“I…well I was told, that- er, it’s nearly Christmas, so I guess I’ll be home soon. When I get home, I obviously won’t quite be the same as I have used to be…but I guess that’s why I was sent here by you in the first place.” He paused, “Maybe when you meet me again I’ll be as Pure as the rest of you.”

 

* * *

 

It was nearer to midnight than the requested half eleven by the time Julian stumbled through the front door of his parent’s house. The house, as Adam had described on one occasion, was ‘unsettlingly normal looking for such a family’, to which Julian was forced to explain the dynamic within which his relatives lived. Things were truly as normal as the house represented, but all houses have their flaws, their unexpected problems like a broken sink, or an Impure family member.

Just above the door on the inside of the porch, was the unforgettable face of the family’s religious saviour – the perfect human being. The idea of Purity was quite simple, and perhaps, or perhaps not was designed to be the achievable goal for the hardworking man, woman, or child. Anyone with any faith tried to achieve this image, this state of mind. It was not surprising that through political propaganda, and the government run media, that this image was plastered behind the eyelids of anyone paying any attention to the subtle hints to conform that greeted children at an early age, and shook hands for one last time on their deathbeds.

The image of Purity was somewhat achievable to a degree, for most. The minority that couldn’t be perfect were treated differently – if they were not created in their saviour’s image, how could they be allowed to roam free within the populations of the somewhat Pure? The simple answer that fuelled a popular campaign was they could not, and no questions would be asked. But what to do with those whose Impurity threatened the fragile basis on which the system worked so very well? It would seem cruel to dispose of them, which was a method used for many years, until a highly intelligent, yet terrible man, known only as the first ‘Teacher’ suggested a ‘rehabilitation program’ for the human ‘waste’.

It was not uncommon to know of at least a few rehabilitated people – now classed as forgiven by their God once out of the rehabilitation centres, they could lead normal lives as Pure humans. But lives with ugly forehead scars, and obvious markings around the top of the ears left a person quite unaware of their Purity, as for some, life without the frontal lobe of their brains, was quite difficult.

Yet the prospect of having one of the Impure in a perfect family like Julian’s, was quite out of the question – for that sort of thing happened to other people. It was other people who experienced having their children taken away for simply being unable to see or walk, or to have their mothers snatched while out shopping one day, for questioning the way the country was being run a little too deeply during the previous book club meeting. It happened to other people, and the families of the Impure they should have been glad, for their relatives were returned Pure, and therefore they were happy. As happy as they could get, as happiness seemed somewhat harder to achieve with no aspect of personality. Of course there were some who couldn’t be returned to Purity, for example the blind, who were soon sent to their graves, and their bodies returned with a statement of apology – of course not before they could be used for testing, just like everybody else, before they were put to death. Nothing would be wasted to aid the lives of the Pure.

The clock in the hallway soon chimed with the haunting midnight sounding, although as Julian crept past the slightly open door, behind which his family had accumulated in the lounge, the sound of heated discussion masked that of the clock. As to what they were arguing about, Julian could only whisper a few words to the God he didn’t believe in, praying that it wasn’t him. It may have been that whisper of desperation to the saviour that cursed the occasion – or it could simply have been due to the fact that he had been ‘selective truthing’ to his parents since he was 14. The last four years had been too long, and secret keeping was always straining – they were getting harder and harder to outrun.

Through the increasing volume of the discussion, came a small voice with a statement that sent the others to silence.

“He’s home.” Julian’s heart dropped to a painful level. “Julian?” His mother called, “Is that you?”

“Yeah.” His voice wasn’t as assertive as he’d hoped. Was it too late to take up Adam’s incomplete plan of escape?

“Could you come in here please, we need to have a talk about something.”

Julian slowly placed his bag on the stool, and made his way into the lounge. His father muttered something inaudible to his brother, who stood up, and left the room in doing so, gave Julian a look of desperation. A look that said both ‘they know’ and ‘you’re fucked’ simultaneously.

Within the hour, a number of things came to a disruptive end. Namely, Julian’s sense of trust, all familial relationships, and his subjection to regular human rights. The process had happened thousands of times before, in every part of the country, to others like Julian – decidedly Impure to those who refused to understand that it was not his choice to be this way.  The story was not a new one. Within the hour the van had arrived, the van of which every inch of available space was covered in images of happy families, yet none of these people were harbouring the scars of having ever been near a rehabilitation centre.

 

Of course, in some ways, he was lucky, as he had escaped with his life – his family’s decision was to send him away, rather than to end his life themselves (a prospect which had crossed the minds of more people in the lounge than Julian dared to think about, as it would have been legal under these circumstances). In other ways, his luck had run out the second that he had returned home, as he was alive and kicking when the ambulance-like van arrived outside.

 

He was alive when his father signed the contract to hand him over, followed by his own so-called ‘confession’.

 

His heart was still beating as his relatives sat there and watched as he was restrained by two guards, marched to the van, and buckled to a stone cold stretcher.

 

He was fully conscious as the van doors were closed, without any familial goodbyes, and the echoes of his mother’s sobs were replaced by the van’s engine, then some time later, the laughter from the cab. And all hope jumped ship.

 

* * *

 

 

“I don’t think that you’ll actually get this message, because I can’t understand why you’d want to hear from me after so long…or what the Rehab Centre would be hoping to gain from this action, they wouldn’t be kind enough to let me leave a message for you, before whatever happens next. There’s no kindness in the world you sent me too, so this isn’t going to be a nice little Christmas gift.”

 

Julian paused as his neck began to itch, only to find that the reflex action of moving his hand to scratch it was prevented by a metal bar, similar to the ones restraining the rest of his limbs. He chuckled to himself at the irony of it all.

 

“Maybe this recording will just end up in an archive somewhere, lost within everybody else’s messages, a single number within thousands…maybe even millions, depending on how many years this place is open for. You’re unlikely to regret sending me here, and maybe it’s happened already…but I have one last request for you all- oh lord, that sounds so final…yeah, one last thing that I hope you’ll be able to do; forget who I was. I’ll be a brainless…empty…useless _being_ by the time I return to you, not to forget I’ll have those sexy battle scars on my head – but regardless, that’s who I’ll be, and that’s who I want to be remembered as.”

 

The reoccurring thought passed through Julian’s mind, the way it always did when things were at their worst; this was painful enough without hypothesising about what had happened to Adam. He took a deep breath.

 

 “Yeah, I know this won’t get to you so it probably won’t matter…it’s weird to think that I’ll never consciously know either…Ah well, you tried to change me, and I guess it must have worked. Adios friends, family, computer system, wherever this goes, that’s it from me. Bye…?”

A number of seconds after Julian had stopped talking the red recording light vanished.

 

“How touching.” The Teacher commented, before motioning for the army of doctors to remove the recording equipment. “Your speech pattern showed next to no anger, remorse…emotion?”

 

“Well, start as you mean to go on, it’s not like I’ll be too charismatic if I ever make it hom- AGH!” A high voltage shot down the spine. Never ask why, he’d learnt that lesson in the past – the rules don’t have to make any sense. He kept silent.

 

“Have him taken back to his cell.” The Teacher disappeared from view, and the doctors got to work removing him from the various monitoring machines.

 

The trip back to his cell was uneventful, like a walk home after school – sometimes he liked to imagine it that way. School seemed like a fond memory, but like every other memory made before the Facility, it was likely to be remembered through gold coated spectacles; from arguments, to the loss of relatives, everything seemed to be a happy time in his life.

 

As the cell door closed, draining all light from the room, something struck him; this was likely to be the last time he would ever be stuck within these four walls. If his ‘calculations’ were correct, within the next 15 days or so, these cells would all be empty, soon to be filled again by another batch of Impure. Within the next 15 days, he would be sedated – or not, depending on how much of a fight he put up. Then he would be transported to Ward 7, and from there on…anything, or nothing – who knew?

 

It could be later today, or in half a month’s time either way, his time was running out. He moved to sit down on his bunk and dared to think about something that had haunted him since the very day he’d been dumped here, like a corpse left to rot. His bunk was as hard as stone, and twice as cold, but he was used to it. Bunk…? ’Bad bed’ as He’d described it seemed to fit better. What had happened to Him? What had happened to Adam? Yes it hurt to think about Him, that’s why he’d repressed it for so long – but living on borrowed time, what was the point anymore. He’d think about what he’d lost. And it would hurt. But maybe then he’d die feeling less empty. Not that he was going to die, no, it was far worse than that.

 

He lay down, and the bunk creaked in that far too familiar way. He’d been here too long, far too long. It was a surprise that he hadn’t ended up like a few others from his cell block – dead. They’d found a way to end their misery prematurely with the use of whatever tools necessary, and with that they had ended their own lives. He’d just never got round to it – always hopeful? Unlikely, as that had gone the day that he’d left home for this hell hole. Always realistic was the more likely option, as a facility as big as this one could easily go up in flames due to some broken fuse or other, right?

 

It didn’t matter now. He could be dead but he wasn’t, wouldn’t be for a while, and that was that.

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s not going to work, it’s not plugged in.” Pointing out the obvious was something Julian just couldn’t help but it gave him the ‘Smart Arse’ title, he wore it like a crown.

 

“Shut up, I know what I’m doing.” Adam sheepishly moved to plug in the old device to the mains socket. “Have you ever seen one of these before?”

 

“Nope, never – but looks like something from like the 2010s?”

 

“I think it might be…I found it in some charity shop in town, it was only fifty quid.”

 

“You paid fifty pounds for this piece of shit? I’m pretty sure all it does is document processing, like those crappy tablet things they used to have in school.”

 

“Nope, the guy in the shop said it could connect to the Internet, like some sort of black market anti-government thing, that’s why it was fifty quid – it should be totally worth it if it works!”

 

“The internet isn’t functional anymore?”

 

“Just you wait and see.”

 

“No really, it’s impossible to access – you just end up with some government officials at your door and everyone’s favourite Rehab van is ready to take you away.”

 

“I heard that it’s still possible to get onto some websites?”  


“They’re mostly regulated government stuff, unless you can hack. Can you hack?”

 

“If I need to.”

 

“Meaning that you can’t?”

 

“Neither can you, so shut up.” Adam pressed the power button, and waited for something to happen. Nothing happened.

 

“Welcome to the world of government controlled media – they don’t want you getting any revolutionary ideas…also this thing probably never did work…” Julian bitterly commented.

 

Nothing continued to happen for at least a minute of Adam tweaking the power cable, unplugging it, plugging it in again, and hitting the monitor a number of times.

 

“Fuck it, it’s useless.”

 

“I’m glad - we’re in enough trouble as it is already!”

 

“It would be worth it.”

 

“How on earth would it worth it!?”

 

“Well first of all I got to meddle around with some tech and pretend to look clever, and secondly, I-“

 

“Got to look clever?” Julian burst out laughing, to which Adam hit him on the arm, “You’re hilarious!”

 

“And you’re an asshole.”

 

“I sure am.”

 

Adam continued to press all the buttons on the old laptop’s keyboard before picking it up along with the power cable, and tossing it into the small bin, where it stuck out like it was trying to plea for help.

 

“Hilfe ich!” Adam said, in his best high-pitched German accent to mimic how the laptop looked.

 

Julian laughed harder, and soon Adam joined in.

 

“Why the hell is it German?”

 

“I dunno, it just has that look about it.”

 

“Have you ever met a German person?”

 

“Nope.” Another tide of their laughter followed.

 

“I feel kind of sorry for him, stuck in there…”

 

“How d’ya know it’s a he?”

 

“I don’t, it just is. It looks really sad…”

 

“Are you getting all emotional over a laptop?”

 

“It’s survived so long, in the back of some dodgy charity shop, it seems a shame to send it back to the landfill site like all its…’kin’?”

 

“It’s too late at night to be getting all emotional over piece of crap like that laptop, lighten up!”

 

“You’re probably right.” Julian dropped his head onto Adam’s shoulder and proceeded to make fake snoring noises.

 

“You can sleep here if you’re that tired! I don’t know about mum, but I _definitely_ don’t mind.”

 

“I can’t – sorry. Got to be back by half eleven.”

 

“Juliaaannnn…” Adam whined, before resting his head on Julian’s, who had stopped snoring.

 

“Not my fault!” He put his arm around Adam in order to complete some sort of awkward hug.

 

“I know…” He glanced towards the wall clock, “You might want to get going soon, it’s like quarter past already.” Julian went to stand up, but Adam simply started hugging him in order to prevent any movement.

 

“Ugh. I don’t want to.” Julian turned his head to swiftly kiss Adam, before wriggling free to standing up and collecting his bag. “Bye.”

 

“Yeah, see you next week or something. Love you.”

 

“Love you too.” Julian smiled, and with that, began to make his way home.

 

* * *

 

 

Four empty days passed before the cell door was opened again, this time by a larger number of Welfare assistants, all geared with sedation kits, and ready to mercilessly punch out teeth at the sign of any resistance. “Well, goodbye cell 23.” The door was closed, and Julian could only imagine empty space.

 

The group made their way swiftly towards the hospital units, Julian kept up tradition with his usual method of travel. This way, the corridor seemed longer than usual, perhaps because it took a lot of effort to be dragged backwards, laughing hysterically and flailing all the way, by the troop of guards.

 

It didn’t take long to get to Ward 7, a completely alien landscape to Julian. Those who went there never lived to tell the tale.

 

“Ah, 23! You’re finally here. Ready for the grand finale are we?” The Teacher had appeared from nowhere. It made you question whether he could transport himself through walls – anything was possible.

 

“I’m a little indifferent, actually.” They passed a number of small operating rooms, in which seemingly lifeless bodies were having their skulls drilled open by the hard-faced doctors. “And my name is Julian.”

 

“I know, but you must remember your place here, as a number rather than a person.” The Teacher flashed his infamous sickly smile, “You’ll have your name back soon enough, as soon as you’re Pure, the way you were supposed to be.”

 

“Lobotomised, don’t you mean?” Julian mimicked the smile and sent one flashing back.

 

“Enough. Your time has come to return to normal society, and although it will be a shame to see you go, the data we have collected from you will be worth its weight in gold soon.”

 

“I’m glad to hear that the animal testing on me has had a positive outcome.” The Welfare Assistants began to manhandle him towards an empty operating chair. The restraints were in place before any chance of escape could even be imagined. “Not for me personally though, obviously.”

 

“Ah, 23, always the pessimist.”

 

Doctors swarmed around.

 

“More of a realist, I believe.” Julian replied, his heart sinking deeper than ever, yet even so, he began to chuckle.

 

“Goodbye 23.”

 

“Merry Christmas, Teacher. Goodbye.” The oh-so-familiar feeling of a needle finding its way into Julian’s vein caused him next to no pain, as this was soon followed by a mask of Nitrous Oxide which sent him laughing into oblivion.

 


End file.
